Forged by Cold
by Jeormungander
Summary: House Bolton was exterminated from the North almost two thousand years ago. Destroyed when they attempted to rise in rebellion against the Kings of Winter alongside the Greystarks. In their place a new house was raised to lordship of the Dreadfort. This is the tale of the members of this house through the War of Five Kings
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: So this is going to be a little side project of mine, updates will probably be infrequent but I plan to try working with it. The first chapter is the tale of the founding of house Steele and the final days of the Bolton-Greystark Rebellion. As always enjoy the story and I own none of this world excepting those characters which are original.**

Eyron Stark let out a long breath as he watched the last of the Bolton warriors in the hall drop his weapon. All around Eyron Stark warriors and bannerman swarmed around the Bolton men, binding hands and gathering weapoons. His eyes swept the hall again, taking in the home of the house that had dared to rise against the King's of Winter, against the Starks. The hall was cavernous, nearly the size of winterfell's. The walls where plain grey stone, weathered by centuries, with naught but the occasional flayed man banner to adorn them. Smoke had long ago stained the rafters above black, and the only light came from thin arrowslits along the walls, as well as the massive doorway, the doorway who's thick oaken doors lay splintered beneath Eyron's boots. Combined with the dozens of bodies that littered the hall it was all a rather grim sight.

A man with the giant of the Umber's upon his shield came running up to Eyron, managing a ragged bow as he neared the king and the handful of loyal men who surrounded him. As the man rose Eyron saw the grim smile upon the warrior's lips, "We've found Lord Bolton your grace, him and that Greystark bastard both."

Eyron's mouth twitched in an equally grim smile, "Bring me to them." With a nod the Umber man turned and walked quickly deeper into the hall, proceeding through one of the doorways at the far end. Eyron and his guards followed him in without another word, leathers creaking as their bronze weapons scraped occasionally against stone. The walk was shorter than Eyron had expected, and lead to another barred door, this one ironwood bound with bronze. A score of men where gathered around the door, mostly Umber men, though there where a handful of Stark and Glover warriors. At their head stood three figures, two towering over the third. Jarick Umber was large even by the standards of his family, over seven and a half feet of muscle, his strength and anger unaffected by the white that occupied most of his beard. Standing to his left was the smallest of the trio, Galvin Glover, the lord of Deepwood Motte was not a short man, but he appeared so next to Jarick. The young lord had a rag wrapped around his brow that was stained with blood, but looked eager to break down the door.

Standing slightly behind the two was another large figure, Eryon had to search for a moment to find the man's name. _Halvard,_ Eryon smiled internally as he remembered, the big man was a smith's son from Last Hearth, some said his father had been Jarick Umber's bastard, and looking the young man over Eryon couldn't rule it out. Halvard was closer to seven feet than six, with thick arms and a powerful build, his face would never be described as handsome with his badly broken nose and crooked jaw and it was so grim it looked like it should have been carved into a wierwood.

Eryon knew why the young warrior stood apart from the rest, he'd risen to favor as a sworn sword to Lord Jarick, and had gained fame across the north in the past months as the Bolton and Greystark uprising was dealt with. The blacksmith's son had personally killed both sons of Lord Bolton in single combat, striking one's head from his shoulders at the Battle of the Wolfswood and slaying the other during the storming of the Wolf's Den and the fall of House Greystark.

Eyron's eyes drifted away from the assembled men and to the great door, face going grim at the site of it and the thought of what must lay beyond. "They're in there? You're sure of it?"

Lord Jarick was the first to answer, "Aye your grace, saw the whoreson's enter and bar the door myself. They're in there" Eyron knew that the Umber lord had good reason to hate the men hiding behind that door. His brother, the lord of Last Hearth, had been captured by the Bolton's at the Battle of the Wolfswood and then flayed, his skin wrapped around the corpse of Lord Jarick's youngest son as a cloak, the lad had been chained to a weirwood and left for the cold to take him. Then Jarick's only nephew had been killed while attempting to take the walls of the Dreadfort not a week past, thrown from the walls by Bolton men.

The Umber lord had paid a dear price in this uprising, they all had. Lord Glover had lost a father and an uncle, both killed at the Wolf's Den by the Greystark heir. Eryon himself had lost his younger brother and three cousins, all skinned alive by Boltons, despite the fact the youngest was only a lass of thirteen. But today that all ended, the Bolton's would die. Eryon nodded to his bannermen, "Bring the door down"

Jarick nodded eagerly, hefting a massive maul over his head as his sworn sword, Halvard, swung a heavy longaxe off of his shoulder and flanked his lord. The two giant's began assaulting the door with a fervor, axe and maul began to splinter the heavy doors within moments. Finnaly with a great moan, the door on the left gave way, whatever had barred it clattered to the ground as the door swung open, its counterpart quickly following. From across the room that stood beyond, a chilling war cry errupted, and a flight of arrows lanced out at Eryon's men. One Umber warrior gave a strangled cry and fell, an arrow in his eye, though most of the projectiles skated off armor and shields.

Bellowing a cry of his own, Lord Umber threw himself into the room, maul swinging wide, Halvard and his men roaring as the followed him. Signalling to his own men and to Galvin Eryon charged in after them, a howl upon his lips. The sight that greeted him almost stopped the howl in its tracks. The room before him was not large, barely worthy of being called a hall, across it men in Bolton pink clashed with men in Stark greys and Umber browns. Yet what stopped him was the walls, no tapestries hung here, yet the stone of the walls was not visible beneath what did hang upon the walls. Skins, human skins. They covered every inch of available wall like trophies, skins in their thousands. Eryon's stomach turned in disgust so he let his gaze drop to the fighting men. Lord Jarick was in the thick of it, maul smashing aside Bolton warriors.

A glance told Eryon that the Bolton's had the numbers here, he counted nearly two score, compared to the score and a half that where with him. Standing at the opposite end of the room, bellowing commands, was a tall slim figure in heavy bronze ringmail. Lord Bolton if Eryon was any guess. Pointing to the rebel lord with his blade, Eryon screamed a challenge and charged, cutting down two men in his rush to meet the man who had shattered the peace of Eryon's kingdom. His personal guard of half a dozen men where close at his heels as he did so.

He made it nearly three quarters of the way to his foe when his party was blindsided. They had cut a swath through the Bolton men until another group caught them in the flank. Only four fighters, though all well armoured in bronze. They wore grey themselves, Greystark men, Eryon's traitorous cousin's warriors. Sure enough, at their head marched a stocky man without a helm, as he cut down one of Eryon's guards his face became clear in the king's mind. Grey eyes and a long face so much like his own, though his hair was a brown and greying and his jaw broader than Eryon's. Thalgrid Greystark looked even more grim than usual as he caught sight of Eryon, especially when the King of Winter strode to meet him.

Eyes hard the two kinsmen clashed, bronze rang on bronze as their sword's sought the others life. Neither man worried that winning would mean kinslaying, all that mattered was the foe before them. Eryon stumbled back, a long slash alongside his head leaving him dazed as his cousin slammed a booted foot into his knee, throwing him to the ground. Eryon watched as his remaining guards struggled to reach him through the renewed press of Greystark and Bolton men.

Thalgrid's somber face split into a grin as the older man stared down at his cousin, at his king. Down at the man whom he had rebelled against in his efforts to gain the crown for himself. A rebellion which had already cost the lives of thousands, the life of Thalgrid's only son and heir among them. The rebel lord raised his sword for the killing stroke with a smile on his face.

Only for the smile to dissapear in a fountain of gore as a heavy bronze axe took the top half of his head with a single swing. Eryon felt the blood and bone splatter across his face in a sort of trance. It took him several heartbeats to realize that a figure stood over him, a massive warrior swinging his axe in both hands, Halvard.

The sworn sword roared as he killed, his axe reaping a deadly toll on the Bolton's and Greystark's before him. Eryon watched as Halvard took a spear blow to the shoulder, only to take lodge his axe in his opponent's lungs, ripping it free and slamming the blunt side of the axe into another man's head with enough force to collapse his helm and the skull beneath.

After a moment the sound's of fighting died, and the few remaining Bolton warriors dropped their weapons in surrender. As his last remaining shieldman helped him to his feet Eryon saw why, Lord Umber held the Bolton lord of the ground with one hand, massive hand wrapped around the traitors throat and maul ready to crush the man's chest like a beetle. Even with the blood streaming down his face and obscuring his vision Eryon could see that both of Bolton's arms where broken, one with the bone jutting out through his armor.

The loyal men raised a cheer as the last of the traitor's weapons fell to the ground, and Eryon clapped a hand upon Halvar's shoulder as the young man cheered louder than all the others. Then Eryon jerked his head to Jarrick, the Umber lord nodding as he tossed Bolton to the ground. Only for the elderly lord to be quickly grabbed by a pair of Umber warriors, none to gently if his muffled screeches where to be any judge.

Eryon sighed in relief as he stared at the courtyard of the Dreadfort, storming of the castle was nearly a week past now and his men had just finished burning the dead. Nearly two thousand men from across the North had fallen taking the fortress. Eryon had also ordered the burning of all the skins they'd found at the castle's heart, declaring that all who died at the hands of the Bolton's deserved a proper rest. Most of the prisoners had already been released, sent back to their homes and farms, though a number of the minor lords and personal shieldmen of Lord Bolton had either been sent to the Wall or executed for their crimes and betrayals. Lord Bolton was to meet his fate today, executed before the weirwood of his own godswood by Eryon himself.

While he'd waited for the past week for the day he would execute Bolton Eryon had spent his time dividing up the newly open lands that had belonged to Bolton's vassals. Warriors and younger sons who had shown courage, loyalty and skill in the uprising where offered minor castles as well as tracks of land. He'd already raised and created House Kraise of Elk's Ford, House Gimble of Stonewood, and House Hull of Saltcliff this morning alone. Yet Eryon had kept the Dreadfort itself and the dominion over all these new houses until today, he planned to announce that lordship tonight at the feast celebrating their victory over the Bolton's and Greystark's.

A knock on his door and a man peering into his temporary chambers alerted him to the time, it was nearly dusk, time for Lord Bolton to die. Solemly Eryon collected his sword and cloak and strode out of his chambers. His new shieldmen falling into line behind him, guarding his back, despite the fact that the only men still within the castle where warrior's who had helped storm it.

The path to the godswood took him through some of the corridor's where fighting had been thickest, despite the best efforts of his men bloodstains and the smell of rot persisted in these areas, and Eryon looked on sadly at the places where so many of his warriors had fallen. When finally he reached the godswood Eryon breathed deeply the fresh scent of ironwood and weirwood sap, of oak leaves and the smell of the newly arrived spring.

Dozens where already gathered here, mostly the newly raised lords though Stark warriors and the handful of lords who remained made up many of their ranks. Jarick Umber stood at the head of the crowd, his remaining son, as well as his grandsons, gathered behind him as they awaited the death of the man who had slain their kin. Galvin Glover was off to one side, still nursing the wound that had nearly cost him his foot in the final fight with Lord Bolton. Eryon saw others too, Lord Karstark, strong as ever despite the arm he'd lost in the war, the young Lord Mormont, who's father had been boiled alive by oil in the taking of the Dreadfort. As well as others.

Standing before them all, missing one arm from a wound that had soured and with the other clad in a crude cast, wearing the tattered remains of his furs and under armor, was Lord Bolton himself. Now, after a week of imprisonment in his own dungeon the Lord looked much older than Eryon remembered. The elderly man was still slim, though he looked shorter than before, with a drawn face and shaggy hair. Yet the old man looked defiantly on as Eryon approached.

Eryon nodded at the man's defiance, it was to be expected after all, he knew his house would end today and would not go sniveling and begging. Eryon could respect that at least. Finally reaching the lord Eryon stopped, signaling to his men to force Lord Bolton to his knees before the stump of an ironwood.

As the warrior's did so Eryon took an axe offered by one of his men, setting the but of the weapon on the ground he raised his voice. "Lord Rodger Bolton, you have been accused of treason to your liege, murder of your fellow lords, the burning their lands, and flaying. It is under these accusations that I, Eryon Stark, King of Winter, Lord of the First Men, Lord of Winterfell, Defender of the Neck and Lord Protector of the Realm, strip you and your family of your lands and titles and sentence you to die. If you've any last words m'lord, say them now."

Lord Bolton craned his neck to look up at Eryon, eyes still bright with defiance. "My son's died because of you _King Stark_ , your cousins died because of you, may you be forever cursed as a kinslayer and a coward. Your name will be forgotten by those who come after, but the North will always remember the red kings of the Dreadfort!" The old man's words where shouted with venom and force, and he finished his rant by spitting on Eryon's boots, an action which earned him a backhand from one of the guards.

Eryon shook his head as the old man was hauled back upright, blood dribbling from his lips. "No m'lord, you killed your sons and my cousins, you started this war which has left so many good men dead. My name may be forgotten one day it is true, but the North will always remember the name of House Bolton as the name of oathbreakers and traitors." With that Eryon nodded to his men, who forced Lord Bolton's head down so his head rested on the stump. Eryon waited a heartbeat before swinging his axe up and around, then slamming it down onto the traitors neck, severing his head in one easy blow and lodging the bronze axe deep in the stump.

Lord Umber was the first to cheer at Bolton's death, and many others soon followed, despite the solemn nature of the gathering. With the execution done Eryon released them to prepare for the feast. He spent the next two hours before the celebration praying and cleaning Bolton's blood from his hands and face. When the feast actually commenced Eryon sat quietly and watched over the crowd of his bannermen as thy revelled in their victory, eating, drinking and singing.

The feast was well underway when Eryon rose to his feet and began hammering upon the table with one armoured fist. Men slowly quieted as they awaited the word's of their king. Eryon raised his drinking horn to them and bellowed so all in the crowd could hear, "We lost many a friend taking this castle and these lands, Mormonts and Glovers, Umbers, Flints and Wulls, Hornwoods and Reeds, highborn and low. But we stood united against those who would take the North for themselves. We broke the house that has flayed our friends, neighbors and countrymen for generations, and the bards will sing of this forever!"

Men roared with approval at that, slamming their fists on tables and raising glasses in salute. Some began a chant in the rear of the hall, " _Eryon! Eryon! Eryon!_ " But Eryon raised his hand once more to silence them. Once more the hall went silent.

Eryon's eyes scanned over the massive crowd for a moment before he continued. "But now this castle lays without a lord, without a man who can be trusted to stay loyal to the crown instead of rising against it. Many among you have proven yourselves worthy of such honor, but I can only give it to one man. One man who has shown himself to be loyal and a great warrior. He who slew both of the heir's to house Bolton, who saved my own life by crushing the skull of Thalgrid Greystark!"

As he said all of this Eryon caught movement from the edge of his vision, men where shoving a burly figure through the crowd, the last one to shove him was Jarrick Umber, the immense old lord pushing Halvard up onto the dais on which Eryon stood. The young warrior looked confused and terrified as he looked up at Eryon.

"Halvard. Kneel." Halvard kneeled without a second thought as Eryon turned back to the crowd. Though he spoke only to Halvard. "Do you swear to uphold my laws? To bear my banners and to faithfully serve me and my sons? In your name and the names of your children?"

Halvard stuttered slightly as he spoke up, "A-aye m'lord, I swear it, by the gods"

Eryon laughed and offered Halvard a hand, "Then rise Lord Halvard Steele, Lord of the Dreadfort" Once more the men across the hall began cheering again, once more a chant began, only this time it was a different chant, a chant for the new lord raised from the commons.

"Steele! Steele! Steele!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Lord Hadrian Steele**

 _282 AC_

Lord Hadrian Steele stared out from the highest tower of the Dreadfort. The tower wasn't very high as they went, but all of the Dreadfort was built for war, not pretty towers. Hadrian knew his castle was ugly, crouching squat and menacing on its hill. But the aging lord didn't care, the castle was strong and it was his family's. For those reasons alone Lord Steele loved the Dreadfort, not for how numbingly cold it got in the winter or for its smoke stained hall but for its strength.

None of this passed through Hadrian's head as he stared out over his lands, house Steele had ruled here for thousands of years since they where given lordship of the Dreadfort when the Bolton's where overthrown. Thousands of years of strength, all about to be tested. At the base of the Dreadfort's hill a camp sat, just over three thousand men, most of the strength of house Steele. All flying the crossed bronze hammers above a black anvil on a field of blue that was house Steele's sigil. Though lesser houses sworn to the Dreadfort could be seen among them, the three spears of house Kraise, house Hull's black ship with its red sails, the grey boar of house Blacke, the broken sword of house Lachlan and the rearing wyvern of house Gimble. All come at Hadrian's call, all come to march in his name alongside men from across the North.

But this was not Hadrian's war which they would fight in, it was the war of Eddard Stark, Hadrian's new Lord. A war against the Mad King Aerys, one which the Targaryen king had begun when he burned Eddard's father and Hadrian's liege Rickard Stark alive while his son and heir Brandon watched and strangled himself in attempting to free his father. Sighing Hadrian ran one big hand through his greying hair. Lord Steele was nearing to six and forty, he'd lived a long life, a hard life. The scars from battles both won and lost where etched into his body. All with memories to them, but now he marched again to war, a war that he hoped would be his last. The sound of heavy feet behind him caused him to turn. Striding up the stairs to the towertop came six figures, his sons. His eldest son lead the way, Halvard.

Lord Steele swelled with pride at the sight of his eldest boy. Like his father he was only of middling height, but broad shoudered and barrel chested, with thick arms. Halvard had a deceptive intelligence in his eyes, one that was offset by his plain, rough features and size. The young man was six and twenty now, with a wife and young son of his own. Hadrian knew he would make a fine lord one day. Following behind him where Hadrian's two youngest sons. The twins Cedrik and Edrik where only seventeen namedays old but both of the lads stood well over six feet, both thickly muscled already and with a hungry look in their eyes, one that spoke of adventure and battles yet to come. The two lads took after their mother's family, she'd been an Umber and the boys looked like they'd one day be larger even than Mors Umber or his brothers, all giant men themselves.

Hadrian's leading three sons cleared the doorway and the next figure cleared the stairs. Hafter was his third son, like the twins he was tall, though they'd nearly outgrown him. Hafter resembled his father and oldest brother in build, burly and thick armed at twenty one namedays. Hadrian's third son was a clever lad, good with battle tactics and a blade. He would serve his brother well as a bannerman and advisor one day. Like his brother Hafter was already married, a pretty Locke girl who'd already born him a son and was even now pregnant again.

The last two young men walked side by side as they climbed, on the right was Gareth, the second of Hadrian's sons. Gareth was of average height, though far leaner than the rest of his siblings, with a handsome face and hard eyes. He'd been a grim lad ever since his wife died giving birth to a stillborn daughter last year, and it showed. Next to him walked Jarren, Hadrian's only bastard, of an age with the twins at sixteen namedays, the young man had rarely seen his family at the Dreadfort, having been fostered with house Lachlan in the far north of Steele lands, almost as far north as the Umber's. Jarren was simailer in build to Hafter, tall and burly though the short beard he was growing was brown instead of Steele black. His face was scarred by a pox from is childhood, but from the tale's Hadrian had heard the lad was a formidable fighter, having cut his teeth against wildling raiders.

Hadrian looked them all over with pride, his boys, but at the same time he looked at them with fear. The fear of a father about to lead his sons into war and if necessary their deaths, something that in Hadrian's mind no father should ever have to do. But his sons knew their duty, they where ready to give their lives for the Stark's as had countless men before them. They where ready, their hearts burning with vengeance. They'd all grown up alongside Brandon and Lyanna Stark, and they'd all loved them both. Now they where ready to fight to bring one home, and to lay the other to rest.

Halvard was the first to speak, "Father, Lord Lachlan's lad just arrived with the last of his spearmen, we're ready to march for Winterfell."

Hadrian nodded slowly as he thought, "Lord's Brine and Galle's will meet us on the road with the western levies. What of the Karstark's? Any word."

It was Hafter this time, rolling his shoulder's to ward off the brisk wind that stroked the top of the tower. "Corben Lachlan says that they're a day's march behind him. Do we wait for them father? Or let them catch us on the road?"

Hadrian shook his great bearded head, "Lord Karstark can try and catch us if he wishes, but we leave at dawn tomorrow." Hadrian's gaze drifted to the twins, "Cedrik, Ed, go inform the bannermen of my orders." His youngest son's nodded and darted down the stairwell, shoving each other as if it where a race and they weren't almost men grown. Their brother's chuckles chasing them down the steps.

Turning back to his older sons Hadrian's already grim face tightened further. "Any further news from Lord Stark?" Ned Stark's last orders had come by raven from White Harbor, the young lord declaring that he would muster his forces at Barrowton before they marched south.

Halvard shook his head, "Nothing father. No ravens and no riders."

At that Gareth coughed, "There was a raven from Storm's End though, and another from King's Landing. Seems that Robert Baratheon broke the loyalist storm lord's at Summerhall, smashed three hosts in a day." An appreciative note was evident in his voice, and Hadrian nodded at the news, it seemed this Baratheon boy was halfway competent. Gareth's voice was grim once more as he held up a small scroll, the kind of which would be sent by raven. "As for the King's raven well..." He shrugged and handed the scroll to his father.

Hadrian read the note, then paused and reread it before crushing the parchment in one gloved hand. "Have you spoken of this to anyone Gareth?" Gareth gave a firm shake of his head, and Hadrian could see the growing curiosity in the eyes of his other sons. "It seems the king has seen fit to offer a pardon to any man who bring's him the head of Lord Stark, as well as Wardenship of the North."

Hadrian sighed as he sealed the door to his chambers an hour later. Rubbing his face he gazed around at the simple rooms. No tapestries lined his walls, the two windows where open to the setting sun, thick woolen curtains pulled back to let the air in. A wooden rack containing his armor stood in one corner, Hadrian approached it, running his hands along heavy grey steel plates, one thumb brushing the bronze hammers on the chest and the heavy black iron anvil that would rest above his gut. The armor was like the rest of his rooms, plain with nothing but use in mind. Hadrian smiled sadly as he felt the dents and scars in the armor, remembering the story behind them all. He'd worn this armor for the first time when he was little more than a boy, fighting in the War of the Ninepenny King's.

Hadrian remembered those days well, and because of those memories he'd prayed to never again see a war like that again. Yet now another had come, yet Hadrian felt no fear only sorrow. Grunting Hadrian tore himself from his memories and looked to the wall above his hearth, ignoring the heat that washed over him as he moved to stand before it. There suspended by a pair of stout iron studs pounded into the wall was his family's pride and joy.

Unlike many southern houses, and even some northern ones, the Steele's had never possessed a Valyrian steel sword. No mighty blade forged by sorcery and passed through the ages. Instead hanging above the hearth was a long axe, ironwood handle worn smooth by use, its heavy iron head blackened by time, though the edge still gleamed as if it could shave a man. Hadrian stared at the weapon, thinking of the generations for which his family had owned it. If Hadrian's father was to be believed than it had been forged only a year before Aegon's Conquest by Hadrian's own ancestor. The lord refusing to allow any man to make the blade he would swing, and toiling over an anvil himself to craft the great weapon. Still visible underneath the blackened head where the crossed hammers and anvil of House Steele, worked into the blade along with silver first men runes. Runes that where said to make the blade unbreakable. Since then every Lord Steele had carried the axe into battle, it had tasted the flesh of men beyond counting, yet still the axe looked hungry seeming to burn with the light of the fire beneath it. All living up to its name, _Frostbreaker_.

Behind Hadrian his chamber door opened and softly shut, footsteps crossing the room to stand beside him. Hadrian already knew who it was and didn't even bother to look, eyes never leaving the axe. Finnaly the figure at his side spoke and Hadrian turned.

"You're leaving tomorrow then father?" The irritation in the voice masked a hint of worry in the softness of the voice. Hadrian smiled as he turned to his only daughter, Mara. She was tall for a lass of eighteen, nearly as tall as he was in fact. She was stocky despite her height, and though no man would ever call her ugly neither was she a great beauty.

Hadrian shook his head, "I'm afraid so my sweet, don't worry though. I intend to come home with all your brother's intact."

Mara frowned fiercly, "I'm not worried about them, or you father. No weak little Southron lord could defeat any of you." Her frown only deepened, "I-it's Jorah I'm worried for father."

Hadrian nodded slowly, his daughter had been betrothed to the heir of Bear Island for nearly three years now, a betrothal that was only waiting for summer to arrive in full force to be completed. Mara had taken a liking to the big Mormont lad, who was nearly four years her senior, and was eager to get the wedding over with, a wedding which was even now experiencing another delay. Without speaking Hadrian laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder, smiling as he squeezed her gently, "Don't worry Mara, we'll bring your bear home as well."

Mara smiled at that and reached around to hug her father, and in that moment Hadrian couldn't help but see her mother in her. The slight plumpness in her cheeks and face and the fiercness hidden in her eyes. Hadrian smiled and gently pried her off him, guiding her to sit in one of the plain chairs next to the fire, long into the night father and daughter laughed and told stories, trying all the while to banish the feeling of dread creeping into their hearts.

 **Hafter Steele**

Hafter awoke with a soft groan, cracking his neck as he stared up from his bed. Instinctively his hand crept to his left, feeling for the familiar warm shape of his wife. Yet his hand found only empty space, not even the other half of the bed. In that moment Hafter remembered where he was even as the sounds of thousands of men around him sleeping reached his ears. Grimacing Hafter swung his legs to the side, letting them settle into the soft grass that made up the floor of the tent he shared with the twins and Jarren. Soft snores came from the other side of the pavilion, and Hafter ran his eyes around the dimly lit structure.

The snores came from a large shape on a cot in the far corner, Jarren judging by the faint outline of what might have been an axe leaning against the cot. Hafter's grimace only deepened as he regarded the shape of his sleeping half-brother, he'd known of his father's bastard for years, the lad had lived in the castle since his birth after all. Hafter had never liked the younger man, true they'd never quarelled but when Hafter looked at Jarren he couldn't help but see the son of a trapper's daughter, the woman who his father had turned to after the death of Hafter's mother not two months after the twins where born, struck down by a fever.

Still Jarren got on well with Hafter's other brothers, the twins loved him and where constantly at his side adventuring from the time the three could walk. Even Mara seemed to have a soft spot for the bastard. When father had sent Jarren to foster with the Lachlan's three years ago it had seemed a blessing, but now that Jarren was back the pain and anger where coming back full force.

Hafter shook his head to banish the thoughts as he stood and began dressing, donning his mail and leathers with the ease of familiarity in the near dark of the predawn camp. As he dressed he thought back to the empty space beside him, he'd been married to Megan Locke for nearly three years now, their's was a rare marriage of love. Hafter had fostered with the Locke's for two years when he was sixteen. Over the course of those years he'd fallen in love with the pretty daughter of Lord Locke, upon his return he'd begged his father for the chance to marry her. To his surprise his father had agreed, and Lord Locke's agreement followed soon after.

Hafter smiled as he thought of the way his brother's had teased him over his eagerness to be wed, and of how happy he'd been on the day when he'd traded Megan's Locke cloak for a Steele one beneath the weirwood of the Dreadfort's Godswood. The two years since had been happy, his son was born less than a year after the wedding, a healthy and curious boy they'd named Harald, after Hafter's great grandsire. Hafter's smile widened at the thoughts of his son even now toddling around the Dreadfort exploring, and at the memory of his wife's revelation the night before he'd ridden south, of how he had another child on the way. Pride swelled within him, pride in his son, in his wife and in his house.

Hafter finished donning his armor and buckled on his baldric, his heavy bastard sword resting comfortably against his back and the throwing axe his father had given him for his wedding hanging at his hip, a dagger on his other hip. Rolling his shoulders to test the baldric's sit Hafter marched out the tent's entrance, nodding to the sleepy sentry at the nearest fire. A nod which the man returned with a salute as all around them soldier's began to stir. The riverland's air was warm as Hafter made his way across the encampment towards Lord Stark's pavilion.

It had been nearly two months since their forces had gathered at Barrowton and marched south. Sixteen thousand northmen had crossed the neck, joining with the forces of the Riverlands, then waiting for the Baratheon and Arryn forces to meet with them. Two months of riding and marching, two months of listening to reports and rumors of a war other men where fighting, a war which was beginning to turn on them. Hafter frowned as he thought back to the latest reports. Robert Baratheon's host had been broken by Randall Tarly and was scattered, even now the Reachmen where laying siege to Storm's End. The Baratheon seat was held by only a skeleton garrison and Robert's younger brothers, green boys. Word had reached them that Robert was fleeing North into the southern riverlands. Right into the jaws of a Royalist army under the new hand of the king, Jon Connington.

While Robert had clashed with his rebel lord's and the Tyrell's in the Stormlands Connington had been leading the forces of the Crownlands in fighting Jon Arryn near Duskendale and Crackclaw Point. Three battles had occurred, none large enough or clear enough to give either side an advantage, then Connington had turned his men south, marching quickly in an attempt to catch Robert after his host was broken, and smashing and army of Riverlords in the process.

Hafter grumbled uneasily to himself, the northmen hadn't even seen battle yet and the war was already swinging against them, though one thought tugged at his mind, despite the Targaryen victories there had been no news of Rhaegar. No one had seen the prince. Hafter mused on that for a moment before he reached Lord Stark's tent and entered, receiving a muttered greeting from the two guards outside as one pulled aside the tent for him to enter.  
Inside a group of a dozen men where already gathered, Hafter's lord father and Halvard stood to one side, both staring intently at a map of the southern riverlands laid out on a table. At the sound of his entry Hal glanced up and gave his brother a nod of greeting before looking back to the map. At the head of the map table stood a lean young man in mail, his long face grim as he pointed at the map and spoke in a low murmur to the men around the table, the short, green eyed fellow beside him nodding along to his words even as his eyes scanned the tent, one hand resting on a frog spear. Lord Eddard Stark and Howland Reed, only of them registered the fact that Hafter had entered, Howland barely sparing a second glance for Hafter. Hafter glanced around once again, Lord Hoster Tully was at the foot of the table, seated between Lords Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood as the three listened intently to Lord Stark. Standing across from Hafter's father and brother where three northern lords, Jon Umber, the Greatjon as Hafter was starting to hear him called, chewed thoughtfully on a chicken bone he'd been using to pick his teeth, beside him Jeor Mormont seemed tiny yet the lord of Bear Island seemed unfazed as he listened to his young liege lord. Next to them Rickard Karstark looked particularly grim as he watched the maps, brow tightening with each word that lord Stark uttered.

The last two men where strangers to Hafter, a dirty fellow fresh off the road with a bloodstained bandage wrapped around one thigh seemed to be attempting to sink into the shadows at the back of tent, the bright gold Baratheon surcoat he wore making his attempts futile. The other man was equally road worn, though taller and with a certain confidence about him as he stood behind Lord Stark. Ignoring the two for the moment Hafter stepped forward to flank his father and Eddard's words became clear to him, "...Rhaegar's a weeks ride from King's Landing by now, and if they reach it we lack the numbers to take the city by storm, meaning it will be a siege. A siege which Randall Tarly can break easily with his host." Men muttered agreement around the table, Hafter knew that technically the war council wasn't to begin for a short time, but the handful of lords already here where some of the best leaders and fighters in the combined Riverland and Northern army.

As the men around him finished Stark gestured to the Baratheon man behind him, "That's not even the worst of it. This man arrived at the hour of the wolf last night."

At Eddard's gesture the man-at-arms stepped forward, bowing to the lord's shakily as he struggled to find his voice. "I-I-I was wid Lord Baratheon m'lords, me and a 'andful of other's managed to stay wid 'im when we r-retreteated from that Tarly feller. Managed to hole up in St-t-toney Sept wid Lord Robert. Couldn't get 'im much further though, lord's wounded. He said to tell ye ta 'urry to 'im wid all 'aste, 'e did. Says that Connington is on 'is way there wid the royal army."

Tytos Blackwood spoke as the soldier finished, standing to gesture to the map. "Our scout's say that Connington and his forces number nearly twenty five thousand men, most of the strength of the loyalist riverlanders and the Stormlords who marched north after Summerhall. They'll reach Stony Sept by tomorrow by my guess. There's no way that we can reach Robert in time to relieve him. Add to that the Dornish host coming up the Roseroad, the loyalist lords from the vale and the crownlands and the reports of the Narrow Sea houses gathering at King's Landing and the royallists have near to forty five thousand men in the Crownlands and Riverlands alone. With Lord Arryn's forces still near Saltpans we number barely over thirty thousand, we must wait for the valemen before striking"

Jeor Mormont and Lord Karstark nodded agreement as the Karhold lord raised his own voice, "Aye m'lords, at best we could reach them half a day behind Connington, maybe a bit less if we stole a night march. But then our boys would be dead tired and near to useless in the fight."

More sounds of agreement sounded around the table, then all fell silent as Eddard Stark spoke, "Lord Steele, how many mounted men do we have?"

Hafter's father seemed caught off guard for a moment before he spoke, "Between us and the riverlanders m'lord? Nearly six thousand, though their mostly freeriders and men-at-arms. Maybe eight hundred knights and a thousand northern lancers among them."

Lord Stark bowed his head, then raised it his eyes grim and hard. He turned to the man-at-arms who had brought news of Robert. "What's your name?"

The man looked exceedingly nervous as every eye in the tent turned to him, "G-g-gram m'lord." The Baratheon man seemed to be trying to shrink into his boots, and Hafter wondered how a man so easily frightened had stayed with Robert as long as he had.

Eddard dropped his eyes back to the map, not looking up as he spoke to the messeger. "And how long Gram, do you think that Jon Connington will take to find Lord Robert?"

The man-at-arms went from nervous to terrified in that heartbeat, "M-m'lord I..." Ned's glare turned to him and caused him to trail off with a gulp, "A day m'lord? Maybe less. We 'id 'im in a brothel, but they might 'ave moved 'im by now."

Ned looked back to the map and sighed, "So we have at best two days before Connington finds Robert, and with Rhaegar mustering at King's Landing we can't leave the path to Riverrun undefended." He glanced around the table, "We must split our forces then, I will lead my bannermen south, to Stoney Sept. Lord Tully, I'd suggest that you lead the men you have present here, to the Red Fork and await the arrival of Lord Arryn and his forces." He pointed to the map as he spoke, "With any luck we'll catch Connington's forces by suprise and break them. Then we can muster our remaining men and finish the Targaryen's once and for all."

This time Hafter followed Ned's lead and looked at all the lord's around the table, he gave a slight start the number had more than doubled while he'd been focused on the discussion. None of the men present could offer any objections as they glanced amongst themselves. Finally Hoster Tully stood, "Stark, you can't hope to think that you can best Connington with just sixteen thousand men, he'll have half again your forces, and the city walls besides. If you ride south you'll need more men, I can't spare much, but take Lord's Blackwood and Vance. You'll have over twenty thousand swords then. I can hold the Red Fork with what I have while we await the arrival of the Arryns."

Murmurs arose as Lord Stark watched across the table at his goodfather. Then the young lord nodded acceptance, "Lord Steele, Lord Umber, alert the men, we march by midday. We march for Stoney Sept."

* * *

 **Author's Note: So yeah another long delayed chapter. Sorry it took so long and I hope you all enjoyed it, and heck even if you didn't feel free to tell me why in the comments. As you may have noticed I decided to go with the Robert's Rebellion time period for this, though the timing as well as the locations for certain characters may be off (Good news for Denys Aryyn...or is it? _Dramatic Music_ ). And to that one anonymous person who offered to make an account on here and edit for me, I would really appreciate it if you would. I could use the help, especially with my commas. Thanks again and I'll try to hurry with the next chapters to this and my other story.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Jarren**

Jarren rolled easily in his saddle as he rode down the crude dirt road that was the northern army's straightest and fastest route to Stony Sept. It had been but two days sense the rebel host had begun their march to retrieve Robert Baratheon from the town. Lord Stark had met with his commanders before they departed and had decided that in order to save his friend and the rebel king was for the riverlander and northern army to split its forces. Ned would take the cavalry, roughly four thousand men, and ride ahead. Hopefully this force would reach Stony Sept before Jon Connington's army had managed much searching, the cavalry would then attempt to either reach Lord Baratheon and withdraw, or to draw Connington's attention for long enough that the infantry could arrive and relieve them.

The plan wasn't perfect, it put there entire force of horse at great risk. But without Robert the war was as good as lost, the stormlanders would return to the fold of the Mad King without a strong leader and the combined might of the south would crush the men of the Vale, the Riverlands and the North. All of it made Jarren increasingly nervous as his horse trotted down the road, but risks like these where what won wars, or so father claimed when he explained the battle plan to his sons. Jarren's brothers had met the news with mixed reactions, the twins had been excited, eager for battle and for the glory they could win. Hafter and Halvard had both seemed concerned, the two oldest and most cautious brothers exchanging worried glances. Gareth had merely met the plan with grim silence, though the slight furrowing in his brow told Jarren that he was none to pleased with the idea either.

Nonetheless, when the Lord of Winterfell commanded, the Steeles obeyed just as they had for a thousand years. Father had split his sons among the two forces accordingly that morning as they readied to march. Halvard and Gareth would lead the bulk of the Steele horse, five hundred men, with the Stark cavalry. The twins and Jarren had been given the honor of riding with Lord Stark himself in his personal bodyguard. Sixty lords and sons of lords from across the North and the Riverlands, picked for their fighting skills and loyalty. Meanwhile Hafter would remain with father and command the Steele infantry, while father had been given the honor of commanding the cavalry held in reserve with the second column, three hundred heavy horse, primarily riverlanders and barrow knights.

The one good part of this march in Jarren's mind was that Lord Stark had seemed to take a shine to him. The Dreadfort bastard had been welcomed into Ned Stark's inner circle with little commotion, despite being two years younger than the Lord Paramount and never having associated with him before. He'd joined a group of a dozen others that formed a smaller, tighter band within Lord Stark's bodyguard. Men like Howland Reed, Willam Dustin, Martyn Cassell, Jorah Mormont, Daryn Liddle, Rodrick Cassell, and the brothers Othell and Bannen Umber. His new companions and Lord Stark ate together around the same fire every night rode together at the head of the bodyguard every day. Among these men Jarren felt almost like he was among his brothers, and to be honest it felt good.

Even as he thought on his new friends Jarren was wrenched into the present by the sound of shouts around him. Ahead of the Stark and Tully cavalry the walls of Stony Sept where coming into view. The town was not particularly large, maybe the size of Barrowton if Jarren where to guess, but was surrounded by a rough stone wall twice the height of a man. More shouts spread, and Jarren followed Daryn Liddle's outstretched arm to see that around the town's eastern side, a sizable host of men where gathered there just outside the gates. Jon Connington's forces had beat them here, and by the look of it the bulk of them where inside the town, searching for Robert Baratheon.

Two horses ahead of Jarren Ned Stark rose in his stirrups and shouted and order to a nearby messenger, "Tell Lords Vance, Glover and Steele and Ser Wendell to hit the infantry outside the walls, keep them occupied!" As Ned gave the order and the man ran to tell the relevant Lords, trumpets began to blow. The Targaryen infantry outside the town walls couldn't have numbered more than three thousand men, Jarren saw the banners of half a dozen minor riverlands houses who had stayed loyal to the throne, as well as a handful of crownlands banners. Though hundreds more men where pouring out of the gates as Jarren watched the men outside still knew they had no hope of stopping the rebel cavalry, not without a miracle or horse of their own. Yet as the Stark cavalry rode for the towns northern gate the royalist forces moved to stop them, they managed to form a rough line across the road as Jarren watched nearly a quarter of the northern host split off, Halvard at their head, and rode to meet the men still pouring out of the eastern gates. The rest of the cavalry trotted on, straight towards the men who blocked their path to the northern gate.

Jarren sent up a quick prayer to the old gods as he tugged on his gauntlets and slammed his helmet into place, readying himself for the charge. All around him men made similar last minute preparations as they moved, checking shield straps, readying lances or loosening swords in their scabbards. Then, just before they entered arrow range with the enemy force, a war horn rang out, pulling the Stark cavalry to a halt. Ned rose in his saddle once more as he looked out over his gathered men, watching them dress their lines. Nearly four thousand men blocked their path ahead now, with a crude wall of spears raised in defiance as knights and lords behind the levies bellowed orders. To the northmen's left Halvard's cavalry was now in position, parallel to them but separated by a hundred yards.

With one last look at his men Ned raised his lance in one armored fist and lowered it at the enemy, war horns sounded one last long mournful note and four thousand horsemen began their advance to meet the enemy. There where still hundreds of men in a disorganized mass outside the east gate as their captains tried to form them up even as they exited the gate, Jarren stopped looking in their direction as Halvard's men began their charge with a roar. The bulk of the men outside the walls however where before him, waiting. He shifted his grip on his ax slightly as his warhorse shifted from a canter to a gallop, all around him men screamed war cries, "Stark!", "Umber!", "Winterfell!", "Riverrun!" those and a thousand others filled his ears.

Behind the spear wall that faced him Jarren could see the open gates of the town, with no men to guard them. Then his gaze focused again as the charge covered the last thirty yards. At that point the enemy archers, panicked and disorganized as they where, managed their first volley. Arrows rattled down around him, slipping off steel, wood and leather and biting flesh. One struck his shield and another hammered into his helm, snapping Jarren's head around for a heartbeat. In that heartbeat he saw half a dozen men around him die as arrows found gaps in their armor, or felled their horses.

Ten heartbeats later the northern horse struck the royalist infantry, Jarren leaned over his horse's neck and embedded his ax in the skull of a tall man thrusting a spear at him even as his horse kicked out and caved in the chest of another man. Jarren saw the rider to his right plucked from his saddle by a spear, even as the man behind him was hurled from his horse when it reared and fell, three more spears in its chest. A heavy blow skated of Jarren's pauldron and he was lost in the madness. His ax danced as he fought his way through the loyalist infantry, and by the time he broke through their lines his right arm was painted red to the shoulder. Spinning his horse he looked back at the enemy lines. Ned Stark and the rest of his bodyguard where not far behind him, bogged down fighting a portion of the line which had rallied to a short knight with a pair of blue turtles on his surcoat. But all around the Targaryen foot was routing, smashed by the Stark cavalry's charge. As Jarren spurred his horse to charge the rear of the stubborn turtle knight and his men he noticed that the casualties of the northmen where relatively light. The turtle knight turned just in time to meet Jarren's charge, and Jarren liked to think for a moment that he could see the man's eyes widen beneath his helmet as he fumbled to raise his shield.

To his credit the startled knight blocked two ax blows before Jarren's third knocked his shield aside and allowed the young northman to sever the man's sword arm at the elbow. The knight fell to the dirt with a scream to be trampled by Jarren's warhorse and vanished from the bastard's mind at that moment. Seeing their leader fall the remaining foot around him let out an anguished wail and threw down their weapons, turning and fleeing as they forgot their stand against the Stark cavalry.

Seeing their foes routed Lord Stark looked around without a word, Jarren followed his gaze and saw that Halvard's force had met with similar success, but was now bogged down by a shield wall formed in the eastern gateway and by archers who had managed to seize the walls. Cursing Eddard sent another messenger to order the Steele heir to break off and enter the town through the northern gate instead, leaving the enemy be for now. Then he turned and led his own men inside the town bellowing orders for men to dismount and secure the gates as he went.

 **Hafter**

Hafter wasn't sure if he was lucky or cursed, on one hand he was left behind with the foot while his brother all rode ahead with Lord Stark, stealing the glory like always. On the other his father had gifted him with the largest and arguably most important command that his house could have. An honor only added to when Lord Hornwood, who commanded the infantry, had given him command of the vanguard. The foot would be the mighty fist that crushed Connington's forces if everything went to plan today, and from the look of things everything _was_ going to plan. As Hafter rode before the northern infantry while they approached the gates of Stony Sept he couldn't help but notice the piles of dead scattered before the gates.

Hundreds of dead men in the colors of houses loyal to the Targaryen's littered the road approaching the gates, interspersed among them where the occasional corpses of horses and northerners. Though it looked as if the battle had began relatively one sided. To his left things where worse, though they still favored the northmen in sheer ratio of dead. But when he looked ahead things seemed to have gone bad, the northern gate of Stony Sept was open and through it he could see a ragged band of men in wearing Mormont green standing in a group blocking the street. On the walls stood two more bands of men, looking weary and with more than one bloody bandage marring their surcoats and armor.

As Hafter led his men through the gates he was greeted by carnage, smoke filled the air and the streets where littered with corpses, the numbers still favoring the rebels though. A burly man with a large burn covering half his face met him, sitting precariously on his horse. He managed a salute, clasping one fist to his breast, "M'lord, thank the gods you lads are here. Lord Stark and the rest pushed into the town, last we'd heard they was headed for the Peach. Not sure what that means, but we've been getting the occasional batch of wounded here and the dragonspawn keep sending sallies at us. Could really use some relief."

Hafter nodded numbly as he looked around, now that he was within the walls he could see the rearguard left to man the gate numbered less than a sixty fit men, wounded where gathered in the empty courtyard of a smoldering wreck that might have been an inn to his right, while riderless horses where milling about around a stables, cared for by a handful of exhausted looking squires and men-at-arms. Looking at the handful of mounted captains behind him Hafter began issuing orders. He had just over two thousand men under his command here in the vanguard, half of them Steele men and the other half a mixture of Umber and Dustin soldiers. Hafter had ordered the rest of his house's foot to march in the heart of the column. His uncle Mors Umber rode beside him, acting as his second. The giant Umber was known as Crowfood across the North ever since a crow had taken his eye after mistaking a sleeping Mors for a corpse. Crowfood was a veteran commander, he'd fought wildlings in the north since he could walk and had served with Lord Rickard Stark in the war of the Ninepenny Kings.

With his uncle watching Hafter sent Dustin archers to man the walls and stand watch from rooftops as Steele and Umber spears moved to secure side streets. With that done he turned to the Mormont captain, "Withdraw your men through the gate while you have the chance. Get the wounded back to the healers. Go." The injured man nodded and turned his horse to give the orders to his exhausted men. As the soldier moved off Hafter turned to his uncle, "I'll leave a quarter of the van here, Lachlan will command them. I want you to take your men and try for the west gate, see if you can't open up another avenue into the city for Lord Hornwood and the rest of the infantry. I'll take the rest of the van, push up to support Lord Stark and have a go for the square." As he spoke a massive ringing began, coming from the tower of the stone sept at the town's heart. The bells where being run, for what reason Hafter had no idea.

The older man nodded, and grinned with the usual Umber bloodlust and eagerness "I'll gut the dragon kissing bastards then meet you in the square. Fuckers won't know what hit them."

At that Hafter grabbed his uncles arm, "If you can't take that gate you pull back. You understand uncle? I don't want you wasting men cause you're to fucking proud to withdraw."

Mors looked at his nephew with something akin to respect for a moment before nodding, "Aye lad, I will. If you see my boys give them my best." He gave another crooked grin before dismounting and screaming at his men to gather to him. Nearly three hundred Umber men, big hairy bastards wrapped in furs and iron and carrying heavy axes rallied to their lord's uncle. Mors raised a mighty warhammer over his head with one hand and led his men west at a trot, Hafter watching them go with a grin.

With his uncle gone Hafter turned to the second of his captains, Lord Garth Lachlan was a short, stocky man with strangely long arms and a badly broken nose. He was older than Hafter's father yet the lord looked eager as a boy about to kiss his first milkmaid at the thought of battle. "Lachlan, you hold this gate. Any man who flies a dragon banner doesn't leave through this gate alive, you hear?"

Garth nodded eagerly as he eyed the surrounding streets, "Aye m'lord, me and the boys can handle that." He cast a quick glance behind him at his two youngest sons, who had the same eager look in their eyes. "They try and take this here gate and we'll bleed 'em good"

At that Hafter turned back to his remaining men and captains, "Ser Rolland, take the rear guard, keep an eye out for flanking groups. Lord Blacke you have the center column, archers at the middle." The two men he had chosen nodded and trotted back to their men to organize them for an advance. He turned to the remaining men with him, two dozen mounted lordlings and sworn swords with a hundred of his house's best on foot behind them. "The rest of you lads'll be in the vanguard with me." His men looked at each other, some grinning and others looking nervous as Hafter clapped his open face helm on and drew his sword. Face transforming into a mask of rage Hafter raised his blade as he faced his men with a scream upon his lips, "For house Stark! For Brandon and Lyanna!" His men roared his war cry back in his face, deafening him with the sound of two thousand voices.

As his men grew silent once more Hafter wheeled his horse and advanced into the town, eyes sharp for ambush and ears seeking the sound of battle. It took the northmen a quarter hour to find their first foes. The hundred or so Darry men that they found where marching with a purpose and seemed more surprised than Hafter's men when they found each other. When the loyalists turned to run the northern archers loosed into their backs, killing a score as the rest milled about in confusion. A swift charge by Hafter and his handful of mounted men ran down nearly thirty more before the Darry's vanished into the alley's where the horse's couldn't follow.

Unwilling to pursue such a small force when more men where undoubtedly ahead Hafter ordered the advance once more. It was only a few more streets before they found what the Darry men had been marching towards, Lord Stark's rearguard was formed up at the far end of a small square, fifty dismounted Karstark's wielding salvaged pikes as twenty archers held the rooftops on their flanks, behind the line of pikes sat a reserve of ten riverlander knights on horseback. The tiny rearguard was engaged when Hafter's men emerged in the square, desperately trying to hold their ground against three times as many loyalist stormlanders.

When the stormlanders saw Hafter's column emerging they where divided in confusion, some threw themselves against the Karstark line, trying to push through in a last ditch effort, others broke and ran to the east. Most though milled about in confusion, allowing the Karstark archers to rain another volley into their ranks. Two crossbow bolts caught the mounted lord commanding the loyalists, punching him from his saddle when they pierced his breastplate. Which only contributed to the confusion, allowing Hafter's horse to charge, at the sight of a score of heavy cavalry rushing their rear most of the remaining stormlanders broke. Those that fought died where they stood, Hafter killing the last of them, a tall hedge knight, by shoving his blade through the man's visor..

Seeing the stormlanders routed by the charge the Karstark men cheered and their captain, rode out to meet Hafter. In a brief conversation that sounded more like an interogation Hafter learned that Lord Stark was not far ahead, just three more streets, and that the Peach was the brothel where Lord Baratheon was hiding. The only problem was that the Peach was under a sort of siege, with a small band of Baratheon knights and men-at-arms holding the stone building against Connington's men trying to storm it, and Lord Stark's men where to tired and outnumbered to fight through the last few streets to the brothel. The Stark cavalry was mostly fighting on foot now with stolen pikes and bows, and they'd taken horrendous losses from what the captain said. Nearly eight hundred men where dead or wounded by the best guess.

The captain didn't know why Connington hadn't swamped them with numbers, though he'd heard whispers that the man had pulled most of his men back to the main square out of caution. More importantly though he had no idea on the status of Hafter's brothers, though he had heard that some bastard from the Dreadfort was leading the front line alongside Lord Stark. _Jarren_ , the thought went through Hafter's mind like a thunderbolt, his half-brother was at the head of the spear. Hafter almost felt a brief swell of pride for the bastard before he crushed it.

Turning back to his men he ordered them forward, leaving a band of three score Hull spearmen to help them hold the street against another loyalist attack. As the northmen marched the last few streets they saw the true carnage, Stark men where now almost equal in number to the Targaryen loyalists they had killed, every now and then they would also pass pockets of northmen and riverlanders holding sidestreets or manning the tops of buildings, some cheered as they passed, others looked to exhausted to do even that.

Hafter tried to reinforce all of the potions like that he found, and by the time he reached the large merchant's home that he had been told was the momentary headquarters of the Stark forces, he was down to a little over half his men, mostly men from houses Gimble and Blacke supporting his own Steele men. Outside the merchant's house the remains of the sixty strong bodyguard that Eddard Stark had set out with where gathered, forty five men where gathered, drinking from water skins or just leaning against buildings to rest. They where splattered with mud and blood and more than one was wounded, yet they all cheered when Hafter's men arrived.

Shoving their way through the crowd came the twins, laughing mightily as Hafter dismounted. They eagerly clapped him on the back and began leading him through the men towards the merchants, chattering about the battle. They faded to background noise though as Hafter saw the men around him, Jacen Blackwood, brother to Lord Blackwood, was missing his right eye. A tall mountain clansman had no less than three bloody bandages made from scraps of his own tunic wrapped around his arm and torso. Not to mention the dozen other walking wounded scattered around him.

Edrik saw his gaze first and stopped his twin from talking as they neared the door, his voice dropped as he stepped closer to Hafter, "Dragons where waiting for us last time, lost twenty men pushing for the Peach." Hafter looked at his little brother and winced slightly at the anger in them, "Baratheon better be fucking worth it."

Hafter snagged Cedrik's shoulder right before they entered the door, Edrik pushing ahead and entering before them. The calmer of the twins nodded once before Hafter even said anything, "Hal and Gareth are still alive, unhurt too. Ned's got them pushing the east with our lads and the Glovers, see if Connington left his flank open."

Hafter nodded and without another word ducked inside the building. Eddard Stark was leaning heavily on an oaken table as a his most trusted captains gathered around him arguing. The young lord had a broken arrow shaft protruding from one bicep but seemed to barely notice, instead he appeared merely exhausted. To the Stark lord's left stood a figure who almost matched the twins in size, Jarren, arms soaked from wrist to shoulder in red, one cheek scored by a long cut and with a broken nose but fine, to Hafter's brief disappointment. Once more to Eddard's right stood Howland Reed, speaking quietly but firmly to Willam Dustin, "Lord Connington is no fool, he's merely cautious of a trap. He knows we don't have the strength to push and further and that unless we stick to the main avenues our horses are useless. Our only hope is to hold until the bulk of the infantry arrive then..." The crannogman trailed off as every pair of eyes in the room turned to Hafter.

Hafter saw a half dozen renowned fighters and leaders staring at him like he was the most beautiful woman in the world for three long heartbeats. Lord Stark was the first to speak, breaking into a rare smile, "Lord Steele. Words can not express how thankful we are that you have arrived." Men all around him murmured in agreement.

Hafter removed his helmet and grinned at his lord, "M'lord Stark, my sword is yours, what would you have me do?"

Hafter's liege rubbed his face wearily with one gauntleted hand, appearing not to notice the streak of blood it left on his cheek as he began to go over their situation out loud, though he sounded almost as if he was speaking to remind himself. "Connington has been holding back so far, letting us lead him to Robert, and now he's found him by the looks of it. Though knowing Robert he's making a fight of it. So now Connington is starting to push, he's already driven our western flank back and he has men nearly surrounding us on all sides but the north. From what Lord Reed's scouts can tell us he's massing his infantry for one last push in the town square beneath the sept right now." Stark seemed to sag with each word, as did the battle weary men around him.

Willam Dustin continued for his lord as Eddard took a long swig from a wine skin, "We've lost near a quarter of our men dead or wounded. Not to mention that even with the losses we've given them his forces still outnumber our forces in the city six to one. We don't have the strength to hold much longer, and we can't reach lord Robert."

Hafter nodded as he listened, for a moment his mind raced then he spoke, "M'lords, Mors Crowfood is even now taking the western gate, and Lord Hornwood and the bulk of our foot should be entering the city as we speak. If the numbers are as you say we should then be on even footing with Connington. Not to mention we have him outflanked. You say he's gathering his men in the square? Then by all mean's lets meet him there? Send a messenger to Lord Hornwood, have him advance straight into the teeth of Connington's forces, lock them in place." Heads began to nod as men saw where he was going.

Again Hafter glanced around the room, "Have my uncle Crowfood lead whatever men he then has in the west into the square, drawing Connington's attention even further. Then we march with my men and what remains of your horse and free Robert Baratheon from his whorehouse. From there we rally and hit Connington on a third flank, crushing his men."

Silence reigned for a moment as Lord Stark bit his lip and considered the plan. Then Jarren spoke from Eddard's shoulder, "Send men to the south gate and we could cut off his retreat, force him to either surrender or be slaughtered."

Martyn Cassell stepped forward and gestured east, "What of the east gate though? There's near to two thousand men there who could catch us in the rear from there if we don't break Connington fast enough."

Lord Reed closed his eyes and breathed deeply, "We have no other plan though, unless any of m'lords have any ideas?" Once more silence reigned in the room.

Finally Eddard Stark sighed and straightened, "Theo." A squat mountain clansman by the door stepped forward, eyebrow raised in question. "Go find me messenger, we need to get word to Lord Hornwood." The short man nodded and trotted out the door as Hafter grinned and re donned his helmet.

 **Authors note: So its been awhile, my apologies for that as usual. But I do have good news. The reason that I took so long was so I could finish the chapter after this, basically allowing me to post the entire battle of the bells sorta at once. The next chapter will come up tomorrow or later tonight. Until then enjoy the story and remember that comments are always welcome and are in facet encouraged.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hafter**

Shrugging his shoulders Hafter tried to settle the weight of his armor more comfortably. All around him his men where gathering, while most of his vanguard had been scattered to reinforce strong points across the Stark line he still had a strong force, nearly seven hundred swords. Also gathering where most of the remnants of the cavalry force that Lord Stark had led and a force of Blackwood and Manderly infantry that had managed to push ahead to their position. In all they numbered perhaps thirty two hundred men, divided near equally between horsemen and infantry.

The remaining fifteen hundred or so Stark cavalry had been given over to Halvard's command once more, they where tasked with attempting to circle around Connington's men and seize the south gate, sealing it and holding it against his retreat. Hafter had high hopes for the plan that they where about to enact, his uncle Mors and what men had entered the west gate, roughly five thousand foot from what messengers said, would assault the Targaryen forces in the square and draw their attention Allowing Lord Hornwood and the bulk of their infantry, some ten thousand swords to then attack the loyalists in the flank while Lord Stark led the third force to relieve Robert Baratheon and then strike at the Targaryen rear.

It all seemed so simple, so abstract, but Hafter knew that this plan, _his plan_ would lead to the deaths of hundreds if not thousands of men today. Looking over his shoulder he met the gaze of Lord Stark, his liege lord would lead a third of the horse not sent with Halvard from behind the infantry, ready to commit them to wherever they might be needed in the lines. The other two thirds of their cavalry would be split equally and would proceed down parallel streets, ready to flank any enemy forces that they might encounter. Lord Stark had given over command of the two flanking forces to Gareth on their right and Lord Dustin on their left. The bulk of their heavy horse was under Lord Eddard, with Lord Dustin and Gareth mostly commanding free riders and more questionable horsemen.

At a nod from Stark Hafter grinned and nudged Benard Hull, the man he'd chosen as his second when he'd sent his handful of cavalry to join Lord Stark's depleted bodyguard. The Steele infantry, followed closely by the Blackwood and Manderly men, would act as the van for this assault. At his nudge Benard raised a war horn to his lips and sounded out two long and mournful notes. With that signal Hafter's men began their advance, it took them mere minutes to reach the corner that led into the small square where Baratheon was trapped.

Hafter was greeted by the sight of five hundred loyalist soldiers milling about in confusion, some had obviously taken the war horn as the signal it was and where scrambling to form a shield wall at the end of the street where it widened out into the courtyard. Whoever was in command was clever, he'd formed his wall in a rough crescent, meaning that as Hafter's men emerged from the narrower street into the square they'd be surrounded on three sides. Over the shoulders and through the shields of the enemy lines appeared a hedge of spears, making the enemy formation even more daunting.

Luckily Lord Stark had mentioned that the enemy commander had used this tactic twice before when fending off cavalry charges, and Hafter was ready for it. He had a shaved knuckle in his pocket for just this occasion, though he held his tricks as he eyed the enemy position, his own men stopping well short of the end of the street. Behind the Targaryen shield and spear wall a set of hastily erected barricades made from tipped carts and furniture faced a large, gaily painted stone building. The Peach if Hafter was any judge.

Crossbowmen crouched behind the barricades, eyeing the windows and doors of the Peach with weapons ready, and a handful of nervous looking men-at-arms and knights stood near the archers. The reason for their reluctance made clear by the dozen or so bodies scattered around the door in the colors of various loyalist houses. As the bulk of the men in the square moved to oppose Hafter's warriors however a voice rose above the noises of chattering men and rattling armor, "Storm that whorehouse you craven shits! Before these fucking savages reach the usurper!" From the men facing the brothel a handful of braver souls charged the brothel, followed more slowly by their more cautious comrades. Crossbow bolts from several windows killed three of the leaders before Hafter tore his gaze free and focused upon the men before him.

He scanned their ranks one final time before nodding again to Benard, who sounded the same two note signal. Steele men advanced in their own shield wall, though no spears joined the shields in facing the enemy. Their large oak shields where large enough to cover and entire man, and left little room to pear around or over, effectively blinding the northmen to what lay before them. Once his men had closed to a mere eight paces from his foes Hafter once more bellowed an order to halt.

His foes lines shifted nervously as they stared at his men, they could see they where outnumbered, and the loyalists in the square where tired, they'd already fought off numerous attacks by Stark cavalry. Now however they faced fresh men, infantry hungry for blood, and the thought made them nervous. Hafter grinned as he saw their unease, it would help the next phase of his plan. Glaring over his men's heads at the enemy he drew breath for another barked command, "Shields! Down!" Worry was replaced by confusion on the enemies faces as his front two ranks of men dropped shields and all to the ground, landing on their bellies. Hidden behind them was Hafter's shaved knuckle, three ranks of men, the first kneeling and equipped with the heaviest crossbows they'd been able to salvage from the loyalist dead. The second and third ranks where men bearing massive northern longbows, half a dozen arrows clutched in their fists.

At twenty paces a good longbow could pierce plate armor and stop a charging knight in his tracks, a heavy crossbow could do it at thirty. At half that distance? With only leather, chain-mail, and two fingers of wood to protect you? Death sprang from the northern lines, the street they stood on was narrow, only allowing fifteen men to stand abreast, which meant the crossbows killed relatively few of the Targaryen men. The longbows however managed four to five arrows apiece before the enemy commander managed to order the charge. In all the loyalist foot saw more than a eighty men in their front lines perish in a storm of goose feathers and ashen shafts. Some arrows even went through one man and his shield with enough force to carry on into the next man in line.

Hafter's grin only widened as his shield bearers scrambled back to their feet with barely enough time to reform their wall. Meeting the enemy charge with a tremendous clash of wood and steel, and holding their ground. His archers quickly trotted back further into his lines, allowing men armed with short stabbing spears room to join his ranks of shield bearers and begin to thrust into the enemy ranks. Other men joined behind them, readying swords and axes in case of a breach or just adding their weight to the backs of the heaving shield bearers, helping them hold their ground against the press of men.

Turning to Benard he nodded, and the slim Hull man grinned viciously before sounding his horn in a single long note. With a loud groan the Steele men pushed forward with their shields, then took one slow, agonizing step forcing the enemy back. Pressed hard against the northmen's shields, and with spears jabbing beneath the shields into their legs and feet, more than one loyalist fell and was passed over by the advance. Only to meet the axes and iron shod boots of the fourth rank, ordered to kill any man who they found living.

Slowly the Steele men advanced like this, leaving a path of slaughter until they reached the edge of the square. Hear Hafter's plan would be put to the test, slamming his helmet back on his head he nodded to the band of men he had hand picked from his forces before the assault began. They where mostly his father's household guards and sworn swords veteran, well equipped men utterly loyal to his father. When the shield wall advanced further into the square its flanks would be exposed, in order to keep it from being overrun Hafter had decided that he and Benard would each lead a band of a score of picked men in charging around their flanks, securing their sides and allowing the shield wall to be expanded under the command of one of his other captains.

As the edge of the shield wall took its first steps into the open of the square, Hafter charged, roaring a war cry as he did so, "Steele! For Brandon!" Hafter reached the edge of the formation just as the first Fenn man-at-arms tried to round it, slamming an armored shoulder into the man's chest and knocking him to the ground, where a steel booted foot quickly crushed his throat and jaw with a stomp. Then he was beyond the gap, allowing his men to pour out behind him.

A hedge knight was the next opponent to meet him, rushing in with morning star raised, only for Hafter to bat the weapon aside and plant his hand ax in the side of the man's neck before shoving his convulsing corpse to the side. After that everything became a blur of blood and screams. Cutting his way through the enemy Hafter remembered a handful of deaths in the chaos. A Rykker levy with half his head missing from a sword blow. Some Grandison knight coughing blood as he swung his mace with one hand, the other clutching a spear buried in his gut, until Hafter's sword removed leg at the knee and then tore his throat out. A guardsman whom Hafter had known since he was a boy having his head smashed in by a hedge knight's warhammer, only for Hafter to spill the man's guts across the cobblestones with a slash. All of it blended together in the mists of Hafter's blood lust.

He lost count of the men he killed and the time that passed, until finally no more men stood before him. Hafter shook himself loose of his battle rage as he glanced around in confusion. The enemy forces where gone, running for their lives from his men, who cheered behind him. Of his score of flankers whom he'd led Hafter counted a dozen men still standing, half of them wounded in some way or another. As his men cheered he caught sight of the inn across the way. The loyalist soldiers who had charged it where scattered before the doorway, and in their place stood fourteen men in the yellow and black of House Baratheon. Most of the Stormlanders looked to be common armsmen, though at least three wore their own sigils and carried themselves like knights. At the head of their tiny formation stood a muscular knight who matched Hafter for height, half armored, though with a magnificent antlered helm atop his head. The knight wielded a massive war hammer that dripped with blood, and was laughing hugely as he watched the loyalist men flee.

Hafter sagged slightly in relief as he realized the only man who the laughing giant could be, Robert Baratheon. Self declared King of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of the Andals, the Roynar and the First Men, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm's End.

 **Jarren**

Screams and the clash of steel surrounded Jarren as he desperately tried to hold up a defense against the wild blows of a stout Crownlands knight. Turning aside a heavy sword strike Jarren stepped in close and rammed his dirk into the man's armpit, then wrenched it free and slammed the short blade home into the knight's visor, ending his screams in a wave of blood. Taking a free moment to breath Jarren glanced around him. Everywhere there was chaos, corpses and wounded littered the square as men fought on, exhausted.

Jarren halfheartedly cast about for his ax for a moment before remembering that the heavy weapon had been lost in a frantic grappling match with a simple peasant levy. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes ago but seemed to have been a lifetime distant. With barely a thought for the gore staining his dirk Jarren slid it back into his belt, hefting the longsword of the man he'd just slain in the daggers place. With a weapon more formidable than the dirk in hand Jarren once more observed the battle.

Northmen where being pushed back, not thirty yards away in the heart of the square he could see the remains of Ned's bodyguard, a dozen men heading a ragged wedge of less than a hundred northmen who stood defiantly against their foe. In other places similar pockets of organized resistance stood, though none quiet as large. Everywhere else was just a chaotic melee.

Jarren could barely remember how they'd gotten to this point, Ned had ordered his men, now joined by Robert's handful of guards, deeper into the town. All with the intent of meeting up with Mors' and Lord Hornwood's forces. They'd reached the town square to find no battle raging, and where instead met by the readied spears of nearly three thousand loyalists. Not to mention a vicious charge by perhaps four hundred knights that had smashed Hafter's organized shield wall. Jarren had become separated from Ned in that charge, distracted by a duel with a tall knight with a serpent on his shield.

The northmen had barely any time to react before the melee began, a handful of messengers had run off to find their cavalry and collapse it on the enemy flanks as well as to find the rest of the army but otherwise little had been done. Not that Ned's gambit with the cavalry had worked yet, the rebels in the square where hard pressed and outnumbered and their reinforcements had yet to arrive. Jarren panted heavily as he began attempting to fight his way towards Ned's guards, their position was strong, with their flank anchored by a fountain in the shape of a trout.

As Jarren neared he began to make out the men who still stood around Ned. Theo Wull and Martyn Cassell where flanking the young lord paramount, cutting down all who threatened him. To their right stood Ser Mark Ryswell, the youngest brother of Lord Ryswell was wounded and battered but held his ground admirably against a pair of men-at-arms. Another mountain clansmen anchored the right side, a large man with the Flint sigil on his tunic. To the left of Lord Stark stood Jacen Blackwood and the slight figure of Howland Reed, the knight and crannogman seeming to dance amongst their fores. Edrik and Cedrik held the left with one of Mors Umber's sons, Marlon Umber, the three giants piling bodies before them.

As Jarren neared them he heard a war horn sound behind him, he turned just in time to watch as four hundred mounted northerners slammed into the southern flank of the loyalists. At their head he could see Gareth sitting tall in his saddle, the second Steele brother leading his men in cutting a vicious path through the Targaryen loyalists.

However within moments his charge began to stall. Aside from the two score armored lancers that where the leading edge of his charge Gareth's forces where mostly sellswords and green boys on plow horses. The initial impact they made was strong, throwing aside loyalist foot. But then they began to meet solid resistance and their numbers began to dwindle. Yet on Gareth pushed, the grimmest of the Steele brother's had always been known for single minded determination.

Gareth and ten of his lancers had made it nearly to Lord Stark and where rounding the fountain when disaster struck them. Jarren caught glimpses of it as he fought. He saw a tall knight in red and white charge into the flank of Gareth's men at the head of half a dozen other knights. They easily cut through the northerners, and by the time Gareth and his remaining men had turned to meet them the knights had slain half of them.

Gareth cut down one of the knights and his men managed to drag another from his saddle, but after just a few moments only Gareth remained. The remaining knights spread out to form a rough half circle around Gareth as the red and white armored leader moved to face him. Jarren knew his half-brother was a fine swordsman, but in the brief glimpse he'd gotten he knew the knight and red and white was better. Jarren bellowed his brother's name above the clamor of battle and began to fight his way towards the duel. He threw aside friend and foe alike as he moved to help his brother.

Through the sound of steel on steel and the screams of the dying Jarren heard three other roars that matched his own. The Steele brothers where a close brood, and in the north blood was the strongest tie. So seeing their brother in danger sent four massive warriors across the battlefield into a frantic rage as they began to carve bloody paths towards the fountain.

Edrik and Cedrik arrived first, meeting three knights of the enemy ring in a thunderous clash. The knights where skilled though, and stood their ground against the monstrous twins, though they where hard pressed to do so. Jarren hit next, sword meeting the shield of a burly knight as he watched Gareth and his foe touch blades for the first time. The exchange was fast, Gareth was a graceful warrior quick and agile. But his foe matched him swing for swing. They parted and met again three times, each time sword and ax meeting half a dozen or more times.

It was on the fourth clash that Jarren's heart caught in his throat. Gareth swung for an opening, blade diving for the knight's shoulder, only to have his blade batted aside as the red and white armored man revealed his gambit. With a flick of his ax the tall man threw Gareth's blade clear and slammed his shield into the Steele man's chest. Gareth fell, the back's of his knees striking the rim of the fountain so he landed in the water with a splash.

As the southerner stood over his fallen brother Jarren redoubled his efforts, efforts that he saw joined as Hafter than struck the ring of knights, smashing one man flat with his armored shoulder before engaging a slim warrior in purple. Edrik roared across the ring as he struck down one of his foes with a crushing blow from his longaxe. Then the tall knights ax descended, biting through Gareth's upraised gauntlet and carrying through into their brother's helm. Once again the remaining Steele brothers roared, now in rage and grief as the knight wrenched his ax free from Gareth's head.

Jarren snarled low in his throat and hammered his blade through his opponents guard, biting the blade into the knights throat. As the burly man crumpled, gagging, to the ground Jarren shoved past him and started towards the red and white armored knight. The tall man turned to him with an almost contemptuous flick of his ax. Speckling Jarren with his brothers blood and adding to the coat of red that covered him. Before the man could even raise his shield or weapon though Jarren launched himself forward.

His borrowed sword struck the man's ax aside and skated off his shoulder pauldron with a deafening squeal. The tall knight managed to get his shield up in time to block the next blow, and Jarren slammed his blade into the shield four times, destroying the sigil upon it. Slowly the knight was forced to his knees as Jarren struck his shield. As Jarren reared back for a fifth blow though the man lashed out with his ax, the blade biting into Jarren's calf through greave and chain mail.

Gritting his teeth Jarren struck downwards at the ax. His blade cleaved through the oaken handle and struck the knight's arm, he felt the blade cleave through the man's arm, severing it just above the wrist before it struck the paving stones and shattered. Both combatants stared in shock for several long heartbeats, on at the severed stump of his sword arm and the other at his shattered weapon. Just as the knight began to scream shrilly Jarren tackled the man to the ground.

Jarren rested his knees on the struggling knight's shoulders to hold his arms in place and began to slam his gauntleted fists into the man's helm. With each strike the knight spluttered and coughed, though Jarren carried on. Roaring in rage and pain he hammered on. The Steele bastard felt his gauntlets begin to malform from the impacts and felt at least one finger break from the pressure. But slowly surely, the knight's helm began to bend. The hardened steel began to dent inwards until with one last heavy blow the helm caved in and the knight went silent.

Panting Jarren stood, cradling his left hand which he was fairly certain was broken. Only then did he glance around. He saw the backs of his three brothers as they stood in their own protective ring around him, just beyond them he saw the shattered bodies of the red and white knight's companions. Beyond them he saw hundreds of Targaryen loyalists fleeing the square as northerners and riverlanders halfheartedly pursued them. Cedrik was the first to register his confusion, the quieter of the twins gesturing down at the fallen knight whom Jarren still stood over with his sword.

Jarren followed the swords gesture and for the first time registered the sigil on the man's chest. Red and white, with two griffins facing each other. He let out a disbelieving breath, "Gods..." Jarren had just bashed in the skull of Jon Connington. The hand of the king and commander of the Targaryen armies.

 **Hadrian**

Hadrian sat upon a small stool and stared into the fire his men had built before his tent, the lord of the Dreadfort was exhausted, and he supposed he had every right to be. It had been two days since the battle at Stoney Sept. Though men where already calling it the 'Battle of the Bells' from what he'd heard. The battle had been a bloody ordeal, Lord Stark had told the gathered lords of their losses last night as they made camp, nearly four thousand men dead, a fifth of their army. Though the Targaryen's had lost more men, nearly ten thousand dead and with thousands more even now being held prisoner. The only organized remnants of the enemy army where those who had held the eastern gate, some four thousand men who'd withdrawn from the battle when the main force broke, their leader had managed to rally another two thousand or to him before beating a hasty retreat towards King's Landing.. The rest had been utterly broken, and Hadrian doubted that they'd be able to reform in any major group.

Despite their numbers the loyalists had all broken when Jarren had slain Jon Connington. _Jarren,_ Hadrian's thoughts turned to his youngest son. Men throughout the rebel ranks where already calling him Stonehands for the way he'd supposedly crushed Jon Connington's helm with his fists. But the bastard of the Dreadfort had not taken the battle well, Hadrian knew it wasn't the killing, his son had fought multiple times against wildlings at his foster home. Jarren felt deeply the loss of his brother, despite his bastard status Hadrian's youngest son loved his brothers, even if they all didn't return his affection.

Hadrian had shed his own tears for his second son, though not nearly as many as his bastard had shed. All his sons where still grieving in their own way, Hadrian had grown quiet and brooding over the past two days, sitting quietly in his tent when not occupied with his duties. Hafter was throwing himself into any task he could find, organizing supplies and continuing to drill the Steele men. Edrik and Cedrik had grown quarrelsome, arguing with each other over everything and even getting into one fist fight as they tried to avoid thinking of their brother. Jarren though had spent the last two days endlessly polishing his brothers sword, and had all but refused to eat. The only place the boy seemed to be normal was with the remnants of Lord Stark's bodyguard. Nearly half of the young men who'd ridden into Stoney Sept with their liege lord had fallen.

Mors Umber's youngest son, Garth, spitted on a knight's lance in the town square. Rodger Flint beheaded in a charge on the peach. Duncan Hornwood, chest caved in by a kicking horse. The list went on, young lords and the sons or brothers of lords dead. But a handful still remained, and among that handful Jarren seemed to be growing particularly close to the young Lord Stark.

Hadrian pushed all thoughts of his sons from his mind as he stood and stretched, his aging joints popping with the effort as he turned to head back to his tent, eager for a night's rest. Tomorrow they would press on to the Red Fork, where messengers claimed that Jon Arryn had finally arrived with his host. From there the future was uncertain, but Hadrian felt confident in the lords in command of the host, Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully where seasoned men, though he was unsure if they could reign in the Baratheon lad. As he neared the entrance to his tent though Hadrian was distracted by a call.

"Lord Steele! M'lord!" Hadrian turned curiously to see two of his men striding towards him, flanking a battered man-at-arms in the colors of some minor riverlands house. The man was panting and covered in dust as if from a long ride as he bowed to Hadrian. Hadrian quickly gestured for water from another of his men nearby as the riverlander approached. After a quick drink and a moment to catch his breath the man reached into his jerkin.

"For you m'lord, raven arrived at Riverrun two days past. Maester said to bring this to you quick as I could, said it was important." The man withdrew a carefully folded parchment from his jerkin, the edges slightly stained by dirt and sweat. With a nod Hadrian took the packet from the man and looked it over, the seal was still intact, showing the Riverrun trout. Which only served to confuse him.

Looking to his men Hadrian gestured to the cookfire, "Get him some food." Then the Dreadfort lord turned and entered his tent, still inspecting the package. Sitting on his cot he drew an already burning lantern closer. With light present Hadrian flicked his thumb and broke the seal, out of the folded parchment fell a smaller, finer paper, the like carried by ravens. Its seal was already broken, and showed his house's sigil upon it. His confusion only mounting Hadrian clutched the tiny scroll in thick fingers and began to read.

 _To whomever receives this letter, please know that it is intended for Lord Hadrian Steele, Lord of the Dreadfort. Please bear it to him with all haste, or baring that to one of his sons or bannermen._

 _-Maester Willem_

The first part of the letter seemed fairly typical, and did little to ease Hadrian's confusion, beneath it though came a second passage, written in a fairer hand that Hadrian instantly recognized. Mara.

 _Father,_

 _I'm afraid that the saying is true, dark wings, dark words. Thought the maester tells me that you'll likely receive this by rider. I suppose I should just write this quickly, Megan is dead father. She went into childbirth late last night and it went poorly from the start. She bled badly when the babe came, and by the time it was done the babe was dead and Maester Willem said Megan was already showing signs of fever. She fought hard, and Willem did all he could, but she died just hours later. Tell Hafter that her last words where of him, maybe it will bring him some comfort._

 _Mara_

After a moment Hadrian couldn't believe it, then he read the letter again. Megan was dead, his sweet little good daughter dead, gone just like that. Standing he strode out of his tent, still at a loss for words as he clutched the scroll gently in one hand. The guards must have seen the look on his face from the confusion in their eyes. Hadrian turned to one of them and managed to get the words out, "Bring me Hafter. Now."

 **Authors Note: Sorry about the delay on this one, did some last minute changes before I decided to post it. Thought I'd make one last check to try and spot my grammar mistakes on this one. Now to address some of the comments people left, Parzival vi Britannia: Ironically chapter 3 was the first chapter I did have another person edit. Unfortunately they appear to have missed those grammar errors you mentioned and I'm really bad at spotting them myself. However this chapter may be even worse as I can't contact my editor right now (this site won't let me) and they never got around to editing this one. (So jlc if you see this now you know).**

 **Sceonn; This version of Robert's Rebellion will be different, as you might have noticed reading this part of the Battle of the Bells. (No more Griff in the future). However most of the changes are a few chapters ahead and will result almost directly from the increased Targaryen losses at the Battle of Bells.**

 **Anyone else with questions, comments, concerns, constructive criticisms or the like feel free to comment of PM me. I'll usually PM you back with my response. As always thank you for reading and farewell**

 **-J**


End file.
